


The Bard and the Nightingale

by SidraC



Series: The Outsider [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, can't stop writing book jaskier sorry, disguises and subterfuge, jaskier being a shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidraC/pseuds/SidraC
Summary: Jaskier can't seem to keep himself out of trouble. After he's called away to perform at the Cintran court for a celebration night, he somehow draws the ire of a sorceress, and once again finds himself without a voice. However, a familiar face reappears after nearly a decade with an offer of help - but with a request for a favor in return. Now, Jaskier must navigate through courtly intrigues, an unfortunate curse, and hidden agendas; all without the use of a bard's greatest weapon.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Outsider [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713445
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Old Friends, Old Grudges, New Problems

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, revered in musical circles as the masterful Jaskier, scholar of the musical arts, world-renowned bard, and lover of beautiful women, did not _shriek,_ thank you very much.

And he most _certainly_ did not shriek when the rusalka reached its slimy hand out from the waters of the marsh and tried to wrap its cold, wet fingers around his ankle – tried, being the operative word, because Jaskier – quickly sensing the danger that followed him – leaped away from the water with a dignified cry; warning his unawares travelling companion of the beast that lurked in the murky waters.

No matter that he’d been so startled by the sudden cold, slimy grasp around his ankle that he’d nearly leapt ten feet in the air; not in any sort of defensive manner, or even out of a sense of self-preservation, but simply because he hadn’t paid a smidge of attention to the water despite Geralt’s warnings, and the sudden invasion had made his heart nearly stop with fear. And, perhaps if one was inclined to be so dramatic, or had a less refined ear to the sounds of battle, one might even say that Jaskier’s cry of warning was as high pitched as a young schoolgirl’s.

Ah, well. The victors write the history books, and so long as Jaskier continued to cheat death, his dignity at least would remain intact as well.

Geralt finished dispatching the rusalka with a flourish of his sword, then turned back to where Jaskier and their horses waited, and began to slog out of the marsh. He was covered in foul smelling water and was apparently in an even fouler mood. Jaskier pretended not to notice as he strummed his fingers over the neck of his lute.

“Thank the _gods_ for my quick thinking, Geralt, that bloody thing nearly had you!”

Geralt shot him a glare. “Fuck off, bard. It was your bloody yammering that attracted it in the first place,”

“I beg your pardon,” Jaskier sniffed indignantly, or as indignantly as he could, having to quickly side-step the witcher as he hulked past, dripping with swamp water. Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “I think I did you a favor! That rusalka made its home awfully close to the village road. No way of telling whether or not it’s snatched up any unsuspecting travelers, children, pets... Who knows, the ealdorman might be willing to pay a fair price for its head.”

He watched as Geralt stripped out of his sopping shirt, and did his best to mop the mud off his face. When all he managed to accomplish was to spread the filth further into his hair, his scowl deepened.

“Rusalka don’t nest near main roads,” Geralt said, obviously trying to maintain his composure. “They only attack when humans wander into their marshes. Or when their senses have been offended by clueless bards.”

Jaskier sniffed haughtily and marched past Geralt; his horse in tow, and his nose lifted to the air. “And you’ve offended _me_ through your lack of graciousness and gratitude!”

He didn’t wait for Geralt’s response, but he did pick up his gait; skirting away from the irate witcher before he could grab him by the collar, and show him exactly how grateful he was. Jaskier had long ago learned not to press his luck with the witcher, but it was ever so difficult not to when his own pride was stinging.

 _As if Geralt would ever mention it,_ he thought to himself, patting his horse on the nose as it nudged into his shoulder. _He can be surly and venomous, certainly, but he’s not one to taunt or gloat._ Which was just as well for Jaskier, because it left plenty of room for him to do so.

He spared a quick glance over his shoulder at Geralt, who was following some distance behind with Roach in tow. He looked irritated at having to walk in wet clothes, but it wasn’t safe to ride their horses through the marsh, over such uneven terrain. It wasn’t as if riding horseback would make him anymore comfortable, but Jaskier’s wounded sense of pride was slowly being swallowed by his guilt.

He felt sorry that Geralt had to rescue him yet again; this time from something entirely preventable. He had been serious about suggesting Geralt turn in the rusalka head for a bounty, and he was somewhat disappointed that Geralt had not gone back for the trophy. He’d only reunited with the wayward witcher a few weeks prior, and despite his harrumphing and scorn, he was in considerably improved spirits from when Jaskier had first found him; slouching through a village with torn and dirty clothes, his eyes hooded and stomach empty.

They’d discussed it before, of course. How witchers had driven themselves to obsoleteness. The sorcerer who’d created the witchers all those centuries ago had done too good a job; made them too perfect of killers. Geralt was aware of the irony in every contract he took; every monster he slew, that he was slowly driving himself to an early grave. But the man was stubborn, and would not consider his purpose outside of the simple task of killing monsters, so Jaskier did not press the issue. But his occasional buffoonery did give Geralt plenty of work, as much as he complained about it, and on the days when it seemed that monsters had all up and vanished, and all was well in the world... well, Jaskier had become quite popular in recent years, and people loved a chance to celebrate peace.

Jaskier unconsciously laid a hand over his breast pocket, subtly so Geralt wouldn’t notice, and reassured himself that the letter was still there. It had come to him at Oxenfurt, where he’d spent the past two winters teaching musical theory. It had been delivered with no fanfare or applause by a perfectly ordinary looking messenger, but Jaskier had nearly fainted upon recognizing the seal: a tawny she-lion, pouncing in attack. The seal of Queen Calanthe of Cintra.

“Have you got mud in your ears, or have you gone deaf from playing that lute so much?” Geralt’s voice in his ear startled him out of his reverie, and he quickly snatched his hand away from his pocket. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t realized Geralt had caught up to him with Roach in tow, and his scowl had deepened.  
  
“Not for lack of trying,” Jaskier replied curtly. “What were you saying?”

“I said, you should go ahead without me,” Geralt repeated. “I think there’s a clear lake up ahead, and I need to wash my clothes and armor.”

“No need; there’s an inn at the town, and quaint as it is, you’ll at least be able to wash yourself there.”

“I’m short on funds, unfortunately,” Geralt said, without a hint of embarrassment or emotion in his voice. It was an all-too common plight for him; especially since he’d completely sworn off the south-eastern border of the Yaruga. Why he felt the need to go to such lengths was beyond Jaskier, but he would not question it. It was the only topic he was certain Geralt really would try to punch him if he approached it. But it did make the neat little satchel in his bag seem to weigh a thousand pounds.

Jaskier waved a hand dismissively, trying to act aloof. “No matter; I’ve had a good season teaching at the academy, and I’ll be more than happy to cover a night.”

Just as he expected, Geralt shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “While I appreciate the offer, I don’t want to be in your debt.”

“Nonsense!” Jaskier insisted loudly, waving his hand in the air again. “You did just save my life after all, and I believe I’m still in your debt from all those years spent trailing you from town to town.”

Jaskier tried to ignore the niggling guilt that weighed at him. Geralt’s frown deepened, but the thought of a warm bath and a real bed after slogging through a frigid marsh obviously won him over. _For a man so rugged and worn, he certainly has his scruples, doesn’t he?_ Jaskier thought with a wicked grin.

“Fine,” Geralt relented, frowning at his mud-soaked boots. “But only for the night. I’d like to keep moving; make it past the Yaruga in the next few days.”

Jaskier suddenly realized he hadn’t asked after Geralt’s destination when they’d first met up. He’d been so caught up in his own destination he hadn’t even thought about it; though he’d certainly been pleased when they’d set off in the same direction from the town. It had been so easy to fall back into the familiar routine. After months of living within the walls of the academy, enjoying its modern comforts and even its minor luxuries he’d worried that returning to the road would be difficult, but he’d quickly found solace in the familiarity of their routine. Steady, and safe, but never even a little bit boring. 

“What’s past the Yaruga?” Jaskier asked, now genuinely curious.

“Nazair,” Geralt replied shortly. “Heard about some skirmishes happening along the border. Fighting always attracts necrophages.”

“As much as I admire your cold and calculated shrewdness, I can’t help but think that this is a risky plan,” Jaskier said dryly. “Are you not at _all_ concerned about getting caught up in the fighting?”

“Not really,” Geralt replied flatly, and Jaskier couldn’t help but scoff.

“You realize Nilfgaard has had their eyes set on Nazair for months now, right? War could break out at any minute, and in that case, Calanthe wouldn’t hesitate to shut down her borders and block passage from Nazair over the Yaruga. You’d be trapped,”

“It’s not as if the Northern kingdoms are teeming with monsters at the moment,” Geralt grumbled. “Perhaps Nilfgaard will invade. I’ve remained neutral as long as I can, and they’re a touch more tolerant of my kind than others, and dying after getting caught between two opposing forces is a touch more dignified than dying of starvation."

Jaskier bristled at the flippant way Geralt tossed around the inevitability of his own death. His friend’s cynicism bordered on apathy, and of all Geralt’s vices and flaws, it was the only thing that Jaskier truly found intolerable about him.

“You talk about your own fate with such disregard,” Jaskier sniffed. “You’re headed to Nazair, but where are you coming from?”  
  
“Cidaris,” Geralt replied, his brow furrowed. Then, his face grew stony as he realized what Jaskier was getting at. “Jaskier, don’t...”

“Cidaris, which lies in the east; directly north of Nazair,” Jaskier interrupted him loudly. “And yet, here we are in Temeria, as far west as the mountains will let us pass! Since I’m coming from Oxenfurt, I’d hoped to gain passage down the Yaruga to the coast, so I have an excuse to be this far west, but you my friend, have gone very far out of your way indeed.”

Geralt’s expression was black as he suddenly spun on Jaskier.

“Drop it, bard,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. Jaskier returned his gaze coldly.

“As far as I know, Calanthe hasn’t explicitly barred you from her lands, so I can only assume two things: one, that you care far more about territory than you originally claimed, and two...”

“I said _drop it!_ ” Geralt nearly shouted before lapsing into a sullen silence. Jaskier sighed and turned away from him. He shouldn’t have harangued him so, he knew. But the man was deadly insistent on taking no responsibility for the choices he brought into the world. Not that Jaskier was a living saint in this regard, but Geralt... Geralt’s cynicism, and aversion to destiny seemed to come from a much darker place in his personal history. One that he kept as securely hidden as every other detail of his past, or personal self.

 _Best keep the letter to myself, then._ Jaskier thought grimly. _Who knows how poorly_ that _conversation would go over?_

______________________

After another hour of walking, the road leveled out enough to mount their horses, and Geralt’s clothing had dried to the point that he no longer felt (and acted) like a wet cat, and was far more tolerant of Jaskier’s singing and general merriment. They made it to town by the late afternoon, and they certainly earned a few stares; the bard dressed like a peacock, and the sullen witcher looking like a drowned cat. The innkeeper seemed reluctant to give up two rooms for the both of them, but the appearance of Jaskier’s coin purse had quickly changed his mind.

Geralt had also side-eyed the purse with a mixture of curiosity and, Jaskier suspected, some suspicion. He tried not to be put out by it: he’d grown considerably more popular in the years since they’d travelled together; not for lack of Geralt’s unwitting contribution of story material. He’d practically had an apoplexy when he received a letter from the Oxenfurt academy requesting his return as a member of the faculty; with the potential for full tenure and professorship.

Jaskier had swooped on the opportunity; partially for a leg-up on Valdo Marx, partially for the promise of a steady income and warm bed for the winter, and partially because he was simply proud of his own art. However, he could not deny how he missed travelling with Geralt. There was a reason Oxenfurt turned its students loose on the world after graduation: ballads were more genuine; more fulfilling and real when composed by an author immersed in the stories they told, and Jaskier never lacked in stories with Geralt.

He was decidedly vainglorious of his accomplishments, and he no doubt suspected they were why he received such a request from Cintra; especially given what had occurred after his last performance at the Cintran court.

 _Sword fights, secret lovers, revelations of fate and destiny, and finally a double betrothal and marriage... not to mention the destroyed hall!_ Jaskier thought as he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled the letter – more of a summons, really – out of his breast pocket once more. _I thought my chances of ever playing in Cintra ruined; overshadowed by the events of the night, and my relationship to the hero-turned-adversary of Calanthe and her progeny._

They had never discussed what happened that night. He’d tried to broach the topic once; while Geralt searched for that blasted djinn, and had been summarily castigated for it. However distant Geralt tried to act; how desperately he tried to run from the fate he’d sealed for himself that night, Jaskier knew it weighed upon him heavily. His friend, as cool, neutral, and detached from worldly matters as he liked to pretend to be, had a terrible habit of involving himself in matters he swore up and down he’d never take part in. Jaskier couldn’t tell if it was arrogance, or blind stupidity that kept dragging him into these messes, but the witcher certainly hadn’t made an attempt to remedy any of his mistakes.

 _Your cynicism will be the death of you, old friend,_ Jaskier thought bitterly. _You claim fate does not exist, so you remain blind, and your blindness continues to lead you in circles. When will you realize the pattern you’ve caught yourself in? Fate has twisted its tapestry around you; winding, blinding, tightening its threads..._

 _Huh,_ Jaskier chuckled to himself. _That’s not half bad._

He set the letter down on his nightstand, and opened his notebook to begin jotting down the lyrics; removing thoughts of Geralt and the child surprise from his mind. It wasn’t as if Jaskier had any room to chastise him about bad life decisions anyways.


	2. The Skelligan

Jaskier hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep atop his journal, until he was woken up by Geralt roughly shaking him by the shoulder. He sat bolt upright, and promptly ripped a page that had been stuck to his face out of the journal as he did so.

“Dammit!” he cried, ripping the page from his cheek and staring at the smudged ink stains ruefully. “Hours of work, ruined!”

“Should have gone to bed sooner,” Geralt said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked annoying well rested: a bath and a good night’s sleep had done him good. As Jaskier shooed him out of the room and quickly washed and dressed, he swore to himself that he’d never mock Geralt for his “scruples” ever again.

Jaskier thundered down the steps into the little tavern below. He scanned the furthest corners of the room searching for Geralt, and immediately found him seated, as usual, with his back to the wall; already tucking into a plate of breakfast. Jaskier grinned despite himself. Some things never changed.

“Good morning!” he called as he strode over, far too loudly and far too cheerfully. “I see you’ve already had breakfast without me, of course. Good to know some things never change.”

“It’s your own fault for sleeping in,” Geralt replied peckishly, but nonetheless slid a plate towards him. “Eat. I’d like to get back on the road before midday.”

Jaskier bit back his various snide comments, and decided to be grateful Geralt didn’t just leave without him. As far as gestures of goodwill went, this ranked high on the list for him. As Jaskier tucked into his meal, Geralt moodily pushed around the last scraps on his plate. Jaskier tried not to notice the black mood his friend had slowly sunk into, and kept up a friendly, aimless chatter while he ate; occasionally eliciting monosyllabic responses or even full sentences, if Geralt was particularly annoyed by something he said. In all, it was nothing terribly out of the norm for them. However, Jaskier couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about Geralt; utterly different from how he’d been yesterday.

 _Hell and damnation, what if he’s caught on?_ Jaskier worried. _Who’s to know how the man will sulk about it? I should have just been upfront with him when we met up; now he’ll think I was trying to hide it from him for one reason or another, and he’ll take it as an insult._

 _But you_ were _trying to hide it from him!_ a different part of his brain chastised him. _He has every right to be pissed with you!_

Jaskier ignored both voices and quickly finished his meal, then stood with a dramatic flourish. He hoped he looked less nervous than he felt.

“Well, that was a thoroughly refreshing stop before we get back to the beaten road, yes? Best get a move-on. Places to go, sights to see!”

“You said you were headed to the eastern coast,” Geralt said suddenly. He looked up at Jaskier with those unsettling cat-like eyes of his. Jaskier had long grown used to those eyes, but that also came with the burden of being able to tell when Geralt was well and truly pissed. “Any particular reason?”

Jaskier’s stomach twisted into knots. “Well, it’s beautiful this time of year you know; lots of travelers looking for entertainment!”

“Queen Calanthe of Cintra too, I suppose?”

Jaskier’s stomach dropped as Geralt reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar piece of folded parchment; stamped with the seal of a lioness. Jaskier flinched, waiting for a berating that never came. Instead, Geralt fixed him with an inscrutable expression and tossed the letter towards him on the table. “You could have told me,” he said sharply. 

Jaskier sniffed, though he knew he had no right to be indignant. “Calanthe extended an invitation for me to perform at the young princess’s birthday feast, and as you well know, it’s not good for one’s health to tell the Lioness of Cintra 'no.'”

“I know that, Jaskier, but you still could have told me,” Geralt snapped, quickly losing his patience.

“Why?” Jaskier snapped back. “You’ve washed your hands of the situation entirely, or so you say. Why should you care?”

“Have you forgotten you’re the one who got me into this mess in the first place?” Geralt’s expression was downright murderous. “Every time you open your mouth, somehow I’m taking the fall for your mistakes!”

Jaskier bristled angrily.

“That’s unfair and you know it,” he snapped. “You love to boast about that infamous witcher neutrality as if it somehow absolves you of your involvement. You make your choices just as I make mine, and those belong to you, and only you!”

Geralt looked like he wanted to argue but he quickly withdrew. _He has no room or right to argue,_ Jaskier thought haughtily; all feelings of guilt thoroughly dismissed by righteous vindication. But his haughtiness quickly fell away the longer he looked at Geralt’s face. The man never expressed emotion stronger than annoyance or mild amusement, but now he looked... well, somewhat distressed, if Jaskier didn’t know better. All pretenses of haughtiness fell away. _Oh, hell, I’ve forgotten how hard this must be for him. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, and no easy way out of it._

“You’re right, Geralt,” Jaskier relented. “I should have told you when we first met up, but it seemed to be a... well, a touchy subject. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

The look Geralt gave him could have killed a man, but he quickly relented. “Just do me a favor and try not to get yourself killed,” he grumbled. “If Calanthe remembers you, she might not be as pleased to have you at court, so try not to make an ass of yourself.”

“You’ve wounded me thrice, now, with your careless assumptions,” Jaskier said dryly. “Will the agony never end?”

Geralt’s scowl deepened. “And here I was, concerned for your well-being.”

“You have an awfully funny way of showing it,” Jaskier sniffed, but there was no longer any real contempt behind it. He stood swiftly, swinging his lute and his pack over his shoulder.

“Well then!” he exclaimed. “Let’s be off. I expect we can reach the Yaruga by sunset if we hurry. After all, I have a queen to appease, and you’re desperate to be rid of me.”

Geralt looked properly annoyed now as he stood to gather his own things. “You know, I could just kill you along the way...”

But Jaskier was already out the door, and did not hear a word of it.

____________________

They did indeed reach the Yaruga by sundown, and Jaskier suspected Geralt was all the more pleased for it: even after a long ride, he was jittery and anxious to cross the river, and had trouble settling down at their campsite. Jaskier played a soft tune on his lute, quiet and solemn, and Geralt eventually settled down next to the campfire. He stared sullenly into the flames, and for a while, Jaskier was able to examine him closely, and unguarded.

He’d been anxious ever since they’d met, Jaskier realized, and his unease had only increased since their argument that morning. Jaskier wondered if something had happened, or if something were _about_ to happen that Geralt’s odd sort of sixth sense had picked up on. He knew pressing him on the matter would only result in a dismissive grunt, so he simply played his lute, and allowed Geralt his moment to brood quietly.

But something had been niggling at the back of his mind all day. His mention of the surprise child; of Jaskier not being as welcome at the Cintran court as he might have originally assumed. Underhanded tactics hardly seemed Calanthe’s style, but it was entirely possible that an insidious type of trap lay in wait for him at court. Geralt had not parted on the best of terms: Calanthe was supremely protective of her grandchild, and Geralt’s tie to the beloved Lion Cub of Cintra deeply disturbed her; one of the primary reasons Geralt steered clear of Cintran lands, Jaskier assumed. Suffice to say, Calanthe might not be pleased to discover the bard she had invited to court was a close friend of the fiend who, in her mind, had threatened to steal her granddaughter from her.

“Geralt, may I ask you something?” Jaskier

“You’re probably going to ask anyway,” Geralt replied dryly. Jaskier, true to his word, ignored him.

“The child surprise,” he began slowly. “It’s her birthday, after all. That's why I'm going to Cintra. Are you... I mean, are you concerned she’ll learn of you while I'm there?”

Geralt was quiet a moment. “Yes,” he finally said, surprising Jaskier with his candor, but pleasantly so. 

“And are you worried that, somehow, I'll come home, and you’ll finally learn about what this child is actually like? What she looks like, how she acts, if she’s as bold as her father or as sweet as her mother?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, surprising Jaskier with his candor.

“You’re afraid I’ll come back to you with stories of my time at court, and she’ll finally become real to you. Not just a phantom memory of a dreadful night, but a real, _living_ manifestation of fate.”

“You’re waxing poetic, bard,” Geralt said dryly. “But... yes. In fewer words.”

Jaskier's chest warmed at the admission. It was difficult to discuss things with Geralt sometimes. He enjoyed his solitude, and his secrets, and the only thoughts he typically shared were either spiteful and sarcastic, or boorish and boring, at least to Jaskier's sensibilities. And there were some things, some instances, some people that Geralt refused to talk about entirely. So in the moments when Geralt did share with Jaskier, he was always grateful, and honored, by the trust placed in him. 

_Even if I've done little to deserve it,_ he thought bitterly, then quickly swept the thought away. 

“Tell you what,” he said suddenly, far too brightly for the context, or the late hour. “I’ll not breathe a word of it; of you to her, or her to you. Either you or Calanthe would have my head either way. I don’t approve of your skipping fate, but as I am a firm believer that eventually this will come back to bite you in the ass, I’m content keeping the secret for now, and avoiding the role of 'middle-man.'"

Geralt pursed his lips at him in a truly sardonic manner. “Gee, Jaskier, thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said sourly. “I suppose when this does come back to bite me in the ass, you’ll be standing at a safe distance; flapping your hand and saying, ‘I told you so’?”

Jaskier laughed wickedly. “Oh, certainly! You’re tired of me getting caught up in your business, so I intend on making a concerted effort to stay out of it!”

Geralt only sighed, but Jaskier could see the shadow of a smirk in the soft light of the fire.

 _There,_ he thought with no small amount of satisfaction. _Better already._

___________________

They awoke at dawn the next morning, and said their rather hasty goodbyes as Jaskier rushed to load Pegasus, and the rest of his luggage onto the ferry headed east. They never spent too much energy on their farewells; it was inevitable they’d find each other again, but knowing Geralt’s final destination, Jaskier didn’t blame himself for clapping Geralt on the shoulder a little harder than usual.

It was an uneventful and boring trip down the river, and Jaskier suddenly found himself in a sullen and withdrawn mood; unwilling to even play his lute to stave off the boredom. The rest of the ferry’s passengers looked rather uninterested in striking up conversation either; aside from a young couple with a small child, an elderly man accompanied by a gangly youth who appeared to be his apprentice, and two cloaked and hooded figures that stood on opposite sides of the ferry, the only other passenger was the ferryman, who’d spat at Geralt as he walked away and made Jaskier quite a bit less inclined to strike up conversation. The young child had given him a hopeful glance when he spotted the lute strapped to Pegasus’s saddle, but Jaskier had to disappoint. He had work to do before reaching Cintra. He seated himself on one of the benches near the prow, and opened his notebook to attempt to recreate the lyrics he’d written down the night before.

 _Bollocks,_ he swore to himself. _What did I rhyme ‘lion’ with?_

He tuned out the world around him and became engrossed in his own world of letters, rhyme, and meter. Had he looked up at any point in the following hours, he might have noticed one of the hooded passengers, tall and burly, stand and walk casually towards the poleman’s station, leaning over the edge at the water. If Jaskier had spared a careless glance, he might have noticed the knife that glittered inside the man’s sleeve as he raised his arm. And he might have noticed the spray of blood that painted the deck of the ferry as the man brought the knife down into the poleman’s neck.

When the screams of the other passengers finally made him lift his head, Jaskier did manage to see the small rowboat appear from around the bend, carrying three more men towards the ferry: mean, ugly, and armed to the teeth.

“Ye gods, we’re under attack!” the young father screamed, entirely abandoning his wife and child to run to the opposite side of the ferry, cowering beneath a bench.

The hooded man spun around, throwing back his hood to reveal a pockmarked face littered with scars. A wicked sword rested at his hip. Behind him, the three bandits began to climb the side of the ferry; tipping it precariously to the side. “Let’s make this quick and painless! Don’t get clever, or you’ll get tossed over with a knife in yer gut!”

The three men immediately fell upon the cowering passengers, and Jaskier’s heart leaped into his throat as a tall man reeking of piss and beer strode towards him; short sword glinting in the sunlight. He stumbled back against the railing; clutching his book to his chest.

_Shit, shit, shit! How’re you going to talk your way out of this one?!_

“Good sir, I’m just a traveling bard!” he stuttered quickly as the bandit loomed over him with a sneer. “I have naught but the clothes on my back, and the tools of my trade!”

“And I suppose you’ve got nothin but rocks and parchment in that pack of yers?” the bandit leered, lifting his sword to Jaskier’s chest. The bard grit his teeth. _Four hundred crowns... four hundred bloody crowns, and these bandits are about to shake me clean!_

The thought of launching a spectacularly foolish counterattack crossed his mind, but there were four well-armed bandits versus the seven of them, and no weapons of their own to fight back with. The young mother was screaming as one of the bandits roughly searched through her skirts; her husband held back by a second as their young child wailed inconsolably at the side. The old man tried to defend himself; swinging his cane at the bandit that approached, but was swiftly knocked to the deck as his apprentice cowered, and covered his head. And the seventh passenger; another cloaked and hooded figure, who’s face Jaskier could not see, simply sat in the background, and watched, seemingly unnoticed by the rest of the bandits.

 _Is he one of them?_ Jaskier wondered dimly, before he was suddenly and violently jerked to his feet by the front of his doublet. He whimpered as the point of a knife was pressed to his gut.

“Are you deaf, bard?! I said hand over that bag, before I cut you open like a fish!”

There was no point in resisting, Jaskier realized, and he slowly reached behind him to turn over the bag, when Pegasus suddenly let out a horrible whinny, and reared onto his hind legs. The bandit was blessedly distracted by the commotion and lessened his hold on Jaskier, but not on the knife still pressed insistently to his front.

“Oi! What the bloody hell’s goin' on?” he shouted.

The bandit harassing the old man had left both of them in a crumpled heap on the deck, and had apparently moved on to the horse; attempting to inspect it, but Pegasus – usually a slow, sullen, and cantankerous beast – had begun a revolt of his own: the bandit kept trying to approach from the sides, but every attempt to grab at his leads resulted in a terrific buck, or a bite at invading fingers. Jaskier watched with no small amount of glee as the bandit tried to skirt around from behind, and earned a well-placed kick in the head that somehow managed not to kill him, and instead sent him sprawling backwards.

The sight was utterly ridiculous; the great hulk of a man sent flying across the deck, arms and legs akimbo, his eyes bulging comically from his head. Had Jaskier had his wits fully about him, had fear not threatened to completely overwhelm his senses, Jaskier might have managed to keep his bloody mouth shut for once in his life.

Instead, he did the worst possible thing he could have in that moment: he burst out laughing.

Though he quickly silenced himself with a hand over his mouth, the damage was done: the attempted horse-thief pulled himself to his feet; a horseshoe shaped knot swelling on the side of his cheek and deforming his face, which had turned a terrible purple color. He spun furiously and drew a knife from his belt, and Jaskier went white as a sheet.

_Now you’ve gone and fucking done it._

“Who was that? Who dared laugh? Who _fuckin laughed_ at me?!” the horse thief screamed, rather without dignity.

“Calm down yah daft idiot, these sops are all half-mad with fear! They've no sense left in them!" the bandit holding Jaskier hostage tried to reason, but the horse thief was no longer of a state of mind capable of heeding the wisdom of his companions. Instead, he spun on Jaskier, who immediately cowered.  
  
“You, bard!” the horse thief shouted. “You lot can’t keep your fuckin mouths shut. Was it you? Don’t fucking lie to me!”

“I... I...uh, would _never_ even _think_ to insult men of your, your... standing!” Jaskier lied poorly, his composure slipping by the second as the thief stalked closer; his bulging eyes radiating senseless fury. The thief shoved his companion out of the way and suddenly, there was a sharp blade pressed against Jaskier's neck, and hot breath in his face. Jaskier's stomach roiled with fear.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Jaskier’s limbs were trembling uncontrollably, the pain of the knife cutting into his neck making him near blind with panic. _What the fuck am I meant to do now?!_

“Tell me the truth, and _maybe_ I’ll consider killing you _before_ cutting out your tongue!”

Jaskier went white as a sheet, and panic completely took over as he tried to struggle out of the man’s grasp, then froze with a strangled cry as the bandit pressed the knife down harder; drawing a thin, bloody line across his neck. Jaskier fought hard against the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes. 

“Well?” the thief sneered. “Who. Fucking. _Laughed?”_

Jaskier closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and prepared to answer, but before he could speak, a voice suddenly called out:

“It was me.”

The thief jerked his head around, but kept his knife pressed to Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier cracked an eye; trying to figure out who had spoken up, and to his surprise, the lone hooded passenger had stood up, and was leaning against the railing of the ferry. Their face was still covered by dark hood, but the longer Jaskier stared at the mysterious figure, the more his skin began to crawl; as if pricked by miniature bolts of lightning.

The other bandits seemed to hesitate as they spun to look at this foolishly brave figure, hands fiddling with their weapons, but the horse thief had no such qualms: his rage redirected, he dropped Jaskier who promptly slumped to his knees, and brandished his knife at the hooded person.

“Big man; hiding behind a fucking hood, and laughing when you think you can get away with it?” the horse thief spat at the hooded passenger’s feet. “Show me your fucking face, you coward!”

His voice was completely unhinged, but the hooded passenger was not perturbed: they slowly, near leisurely, lifted their arms to the deep hood covering their head, and Jaskier’s heart leaped into his throat at the pure white hair that tumbled out of the hood. 

“Geralt...?!” Jaskier nearly cried, astonished and delighted, until he realized that although this figure was of a similar stature and had a similar hair color to his friend, this mysterious passenger was in fact a woman, with blue eyes so sharp they could cut steel. 

The horse thief, upon realizing a lowly _woman_ had insulted him, roared with anger.

“A fucking _bitch?”_ he screamed. “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve...!”

“Mulligan, leave it,” one of the bandits interrupted, rather nervously Jaskier thought. He glanced around at the faces of the looters; aside from Mulligan the horse thief, none of them could seem to take their eyes off her; fiddling with their weapons nervously. The very air around them seemed to change; tense, charged, and breathless. Jaskier, though he was still slumped to his knees clutching at his bleeding throat, smirked.

 _How interesting,_ he thought cruelly.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, picking on a helpless bard,” the woman’s words were sharp, but her tone was perfectly even and calm. She crossed her arms over her chest; her face a cool mask of indifference. “Steal what you like, but I draw the line on boorish cock shows.”

Jaskier’s smirked fell off his face as his mouth fell open, completely gobsmacked.

“Are you _encouraging_ them to steal from us?!” he shouted, completely forgetting himself in his indignation. All eyes suddenly flicked over to him, including the woman’s. _There’s something about those eyes of hers,_ Jaskier thought distantly, then quickly forgot whatever conclusion he was coming to as the woman began speaking again.

“Sure. Everyone makes a living somehow. Money exchanges hands all the time. Doesn’t matter how it comes around, does it?”

 _She’s Skelligan_ , Jaskier realized distantly, finally placing her accent. _What the hell kind of Skelligan condones looting and... Oh. Never mind._

“Don’t play games with me, you stupid whore,” Mulligan spat, brandishing his knife at her. “I ought to cut that impertinent tongue out of yer mouth...!”

“Go ahead,” the Skelligan woman said with a shrug. “I’d say we’re a bit more evenly matched than a bard versus a well-armed thug.”

Now it was the bandit’s turn to look gobsmacked.

“Why the fuck do you care?” Mulligan nearly screamed. Jaskier couldn’t be sure, but the woman’s lips seemed to quirk near imperceptibly.

“It’s the principle of it,” she explained evenly. “We’re rather fond of tradition in Skellige, ye ken.”

That seemed to be the last straw for Mulligan, whose face had swollen comically, and whose eyes had nearly bulged out of his skull. He raised his knife, and charged forward.

“I’ll _ken_ you, you pox-ridden whore-faced....!”

Jaskier couldn’t help but gasp: the woman was unarmed as far as he could tell, and faced down by a man blind with rage and fury. But the woman did not move, aside from unclasping her cloak to let it fall to the deck. She did not react until the knife had nearly reached her collarbone, and then with a movement so quick Jaskier nearly missed it, she lashed one hand out and grabbed Mulligan’s wrist; pulling herself forward using his momentum. As she moved, she twisted his arm around at a horrifying angle before turning and bringing her other elbow down where his shoulder met his back, neatly dislocating it with a terrible crunching sound. Mulligan screamed and dropped the knife, and before it had a chance to hit the ground, the woman had spun again and snatched it up; holding it with the knife facing outwards.

There was a moment of shocked stillness as the passengers and the bandits stood stunned, trying to catch up with what had just happened. The woman’s expression had not changed a bit as she scanned over the faces of the bandits with those cold, calculating blue eyes of hers. Then, catching Jaskier’s shocked expression, something strange happened: Jaskier’s heart leaped in his chest, the strangest feeling of recognition crossing his mind. But then, the familiarity fell away, and was replaced by a soaring sense of glee. He grinned wickedly at the woman, and she grinned back.

The three bandits still standing got over their shock and lunged forward, roaring in rage as they brandished their weapons, but even outnumbered against their brute strength, they didn’t stand a chance against the Skelligan woman: she spun, ducked, stabbed and parried with astonishing speed. She was toying with them, Jaskier quickly realized; as they lunged forward, she would let them get into her guard, then grab them and send them stumbling with a quick move, or she would use their motion to disarm them and dance away quickly, giving them the chance to pick up their weapon and rearm themselves.

 _Fucking showoff,_ Jaskier thought gleefully _._

She moved with incredible grace and speed; toying with them like a cat chasing a mouse, until finally she grew bored of her prey: Mulligan, having finally risen to his feet, his arm dangling uselessly at his side, charged at her from behind with a strained shout. The Skelligan didn’t even look: she stabbed behind her directly into Mulligan’s gut as he got close, and he fell back with a gurgle. Another bandit roared in anger and tried to charge her as well, but she parried quickly, then followed up with a nasty uppercut that could hardly be considered a fair move in a fight, but rammed the bandit’s head backwards enough for her to spin, and drive her blade into his exposed throat.

Two down, two to go: the third bandit finally regained his composure and drew a blackjack from his belt: the woman skirted backwards and out of the way, realizing that the man had a weapon with longer reach, but failed to notice the fourth bandit charge at her from an angle, his knife slicing at her neck.

“Look out!” Jaskier cried out, and the woman ducked; the knife glancing along the side of her temple instead of her neck: the first hit she had taken the entire fight. But she was not dissuaded; as she ducked, she kicked out her leg in a wide sweep and knocked the bandit off his feet. As the fourth bandit swung his blackjack at her head, she rolled over the body of the prone bandit, swiftly slashing her knife across his neck as she did so. Blood sprayed over her hair and face, but she paid it no mind as she quickly leaped to her feet just in time to catch the blackjack on the corner of her knife and her wrist as it came down hard on her bones. Jaskier winced: that blow should have broken her wrist, but the only indication that it had done any kind of damage was the slight grit of the Skelligan woman’s jaw.

 _Skelligans,_ Jaskier thought in gleeful amazement. _Bloody, indestructible, fucking Skelligans._

For a heart stopping moment; neither the Skelligan, nor the bandit seemed to be able to gain the upper hand: the bandit pressed down cruelly against the Skelligan’s broken wrist, and the Skelligan stubbornly refused to submit. Beneath her leather tunic, Jaskier could see her muscles straining with effort; the bandit had the high ground, and was pressing it to his full advantage.

And then, the Skelligan did something entirely unexpected: she dropped her arm, but as she did so, she planted her foot to the ground, and shoved her shoulder upwards into the man’s sternum. The blackjack fell hard on her back, but even though she cried out in pain, it wasn’t enough to stop her: with the man practically bent over her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around his waist and drove him forward like a charging bull, and pushed him the few remaining steps to the ferry railing, and then with a great heave, let go of his waist and shoved him overboard.

Jaskier suddenly leaped to his feet, adrenaline and amazement completely obliterating any fear that might have lingered. He’d seen Geralt perform some incredible stunts while fighting, seen him move with liquid grace that no man his size should have been able to achieve, but _this..._ Gods above, Jaskier could write an entire ballad just about the way she held her knife with her fingertips, and still managed to slash with such fury.

“Bravo!” he shouted, forgetting himself and his bleeding neck for a moment. “That was absolutely magnificent!”

The rest of the passengers began to titter and cheer, even as the Skelligan turned and slumped to the deck; breathing hard, but her lips twisted into a small smirk. The apprentice was leaning over the edge of the railing, leering and shouting at the desperately flailing bandit; having entirely forgotten his earlier cowardice. Jaskier hurried over to the Skelligan woman, gingerly stepping around the dead bodies on the deck.

“My lady, forgive me my impetuousness, but that was quite simply the most incredible performance I have _ever_ seen in my life!”

The Skelligan woman looked up at him a little incredulously, but her smirk was still intact.  
  
“Of course a _bard_ would call that a performance,” she said somewhat mockingly, but Jaskier was far too excited to mind.  
  
“But what else could it _be?_ ” he exclaimed, waving his arms excitedly. “I have travelled long and far, and taken part in many a battle of my own, and yet I have never seen such skill, such grace, such... such...”

“You’re talking an awful lot for a bard that nearly got his tongue cut out,” the old man suddenly spoke up. “Let the lass rest, will you? Or offer her a word of thanks, instead of your incessant yammering!”

Jaskier puffed up indignantly, preparing a biting retort, but the Skelligan woman only laughed.

“Ah leave it, he’s yammering because he’s almost lost his tongue, and he’s simply feeling grateful for it,” she said.

“Just so!” Jaskier exclaimed, grinning brightly and then giving her a dramatic bow. “And I have you to thank for it, oh mighty warrior of the sea!”

The Skelligan woman seemed to stiffen, but quickly relaxed and waved a dismissive hand at him.

“Alright, alright, enough of you! I need a moment’s rest before we start this bloody thing moving again. You, young man; roll those bodies off the deck. Don’t fuss; they’ll start to bloat and stink soon enough, and the child doesn't need to be near such things; especially for the entire rest of the journey." 

The young father suddenly perked up. “Will you be taking us the rest of the way down the river?”

“I don’t see any other way of getting out of bloody Temeria,” she said with a sour face.

The old man bowed his head at her respectfully.

“You’ve saved us twice then,” he said humbly. “And for that, you have our thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the railing. “I’ve likely gone and broken my bloody wrist, so there’s no telling how long I can manage the poles.”

The young father sat up quite suddenly.  
  
“You forget; between myself and this young man here, we can trade off. Never mind you or your wrist; we can get us the rest of the way down the river.”

The Skelligan sighed heavily. “Freya be praised,” she muttered. “You’ve _my_ thanks, then.”

The young father nodded eagerly and quickly took up the pole, and the ferry began idling down the river again to everyone’s great relief. Jaskier went back to his pack and began sorting through it again, breathing a sigh of relief when the letter, and the bag of coins that accompanied it were still safely in place. Then, he took out a roll of stiff fabric he’d stolen from Shani’s workstation back in Oxenfurt, and hurried back over to the Skelligan. She'd closed her eyes and pulled her cloak over her front, and was hiding both arms beneath it. He couldn't see her wrist, but it must have hurt like the devil. 

“Would you like me to take a look at your hand for you?” Jaskier asked, keeping his voice quiet. The Skelligan cracked open an eye and looked at him incredulously.

“I thought you were a bard, not a medic,” she said, pulling her cloak a little tighter around her, but wincing as she did so.

“Ah, my _usual_ traveling companion tends to get into even more trouble than you, if you can believe it,” Jaskier said with a wink. “One picks up a few things, after a while.”

He’d expected some resistance (Skelligans were a stubborn lot who wore their wounds with pride, after all), but he hadn’t expected the outright hostility he was suddenly faced with.  
  
“I’m fine,” she said icily. “Tend to your own damn wounds, bard.”

Jaskier didn’t know what precisely took hold of his mind at that moment. Perhaps it was lingering gratefulness, and wanting to repay this woman for saving his life. Perhaps it was the returning sense that he should _know_ this woman, somehow. Whatever it was, he overcame his indignation and dropped to one knee, then leaned forward so only she could hear.

“You know, that companion I mentioned... he’s a lot like you,” he said quietly. “Stubborn, mean, and likes to pretend he doesn’t need help.”

The woman had gone rigid. Her eyes suddenly flew open, giving Jaskier a truly nasty look. But he pressed on.

“If you don’t want your wrist set properly, that’s your problem,” he said. “But you’ll be hard pressed to fight with such grace next time around. You can’t hold a knife with a crooked wrist.”

That seemed to get her attention. She did not say anything for a long moment, the look in those cold blue eyes completely unreadable. Then, she painfully drew her left hand out of her cloak, presenting it to him for inspection. 

“You’d think a bard would know better than to compare a woman to his other _companions,”_ she said sourly. Jaskier only laughed as he gently guided her wrist by her forearm to rest on his knee, examining the swollen and quickly bruising area.  
  
“Oh, bards never learn, haven’t you heard?” he quipped. “We get all our best stories from the drama that results.”

The woman huffed a laugh, then hissed when Jaskier pressed his fingers around the swollen area.

“Sorry,” he said gingerly, then set her wrist down on the top of his leg so it lay flat. “It’s not dislocated, just fractured, amazingly enough. I’ll wrap it to keep the swelling down."

The Skelligan woman nodded her assent then grit her teeth as Jaskier began winding the bandage around her palm, working his way up her arm. For a long moment, there was silence as Jaskier worked. The child giggled and cooed as the old man and the mother teased him. The apprentice and the father stood by the poles, chatting quietly. Had it not been for the smears of blood on the deck and staining the Skelligan’s face and white shirt, it might have been cathartic.

But the quiet meant that Jaskier’s mind wandered. He caught himself staring at the Skelligan woman as he worked, examining her features, and kicking himself as he tried to place where he’d seen them before. It must have been a long time ago, he reasoned; on a night he’d had a little too much to drink. He was quite positive she wasn’t a former lover. She was pretty, but wasn’t really his type; tall, broad, and rippled with muscle.

 _And that_ hair! _She’s like a female version of Geralt,_ Jaskier thought with some amusement. _Oh, if only he could meet her; how they’d get on!_

Jaskier finally decided to swallow whatever trepidation he’d had, and ask her outright.

“Say, what’s your name?” he asked as he neared the end of his roll of bandages. The woman frowned for a moment, but did not open her eyes.

“Aoife,” she said shortly. “And yours?”

“Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove,” he said with a grand tone, and a cheeky wink. “Formally known as Jaskier.”

Aoife smirked but did not reply, and Jaskier lost some of his confidence; lapsing into silence as he finished tying off the bandages; staring hard at her wrist.

“Say, Aoife...” he began slowly, examining the splint, if only to avoid looking her in the eye. “Have we met before?”

Aoife did not respond. She drew her hand out of his grasp, carefully but firmly, and withdrew once more into her cloak. When Jaskier finally gummed up the nerve to look at her face, all traces of friendliness had disappeared entirely, and she was staring at him coldly.

“No,” she said shortly. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story must be getting away from me a little because we're two chapters in, and the event that makes up the entire premise of this fic hasn't even happened yet. Lord have mercy.


	3. The Hanged Man

Hours passed in silence. Aoife, the old man, and the child each fell into their own troubled slumbers, and Jaskier returned to his notes; still stinging from the chilly rebuttal from Aoife. The silence lasted until the apprentice suddenly let out a whoop, startling everyone awake.

“Look!” he cried out. “It’s the Temerian border patrol!”

“Sit yourself down you fool, everyone’s seen armed soldiers before!” the old man snapped, thoroughly disgruntled, but Aoife, asleep only moments before, was suddenly wide awake; pouncing into a low crouch, and pulling her hood over her head.

“Why can you see the border patrol?!” she hissed at the apprentice. “Get the hell away from the riverbank!”

“There’s rapids in the middle mistress,” the young father explained sheepishly. “We had to move closer, else we’d capsize.”

Jaskier lifted his head from his notebook and watched with growing curiosity as Aoife seemed to war with herself; teeth gritted, and face surprisingly full of fear.

  
“And why the hell are you so concerned about the Temerian border patrol?” he drawled, snapping his notebook shut. Aoife shot him a truly murderous look.

“That’s none of your fucking concern, bard,” she snapped.

The apprentice had completely let go of the pole, and was leaning heavily over the side to get a better look at the patrol; the young father had to grab the back of his shirt to keep him from tumbling over the edge.

“They’re riding under a banner... that’s strange, usually they don’t do that unless they’re on official business.”

Jaskier watched as the blood slowly drained from Aoife’s face. A bitter part of him was still angry at her for the way she’d spoken to him earlier. The malice had been entirely unwarranted, and he reveled in the opportunity to shove it back in her face. He turned to face her more fully and crossed his legs at the knee, leaning his chin on his elbow before giving her a simpering look.

“King Foltest _really_ takes his border patrol seriously, you know,” he said with an air of faux innocence. “Why, I’ve heard all _sorts_ of awful stories about the highwaymen and robbers who get caught by the patrols, trying to leave Temeria with stolen goods, or blood on their hands. I daresay, it’s a fate much worse than the one received by our bandit friends.”

The look Aoife gave him was positively hateful.

“Shut yer fucking mouth, bard, before I show _you_ a worse fate,”

Jaskier grinned wickedly. “Just don’t let the border patrol see.”

“Look! They’re waving us down!”

Aoife swore furiously, and Jaskier couldn’t help the nasty little part of him that felt vindicated. As incredible a fighter as this Aoife was, she was obviously not a reputable sort. Jaskier was not typically the vengeful type, but seeing her squirm after the way she’d treated him, not to mention her little comment about the “exchanging of hands,” was turning out to be _brilliantly_ satisfying. Oh, he wouldn’t turn her over to the Temerians, of course; he wasn’t _that_ cruel. He’d played for Foltest that winter, and he was certain a good word, not to mention the fact that she’d taken out a band of thugs for the patrol, would get her out of hot water.

However, Aoife was apparently not of the same mindset, and suddenly lunged forward with blinding speed; grabbing Jaskier by the collar.

_My clothes are all going to be bloody stretched out at this rate,_ he thought foolishly, then his attention turned back to the furious woman who had him cornered.

“I don’t think you understand, _bard,”_ she said slowly, her words dripping with venom. “I don’t have time to play games with the Temerians, nor can I afford a trip back to Vizima. I need to get to Cintra, and I suggest if you want to make it to Cintra too, you keep your fuckin mouth _shut_ when we come ashore.”

Something about Aoife’s tone told him she was deadly, dangerously serious, and any sort of playful maliciousness Jaskier might have entertained quickly vanished as the first real sense of danger struck him: Aoife was not the kind of person he needed to be fucking with at the moment. She’d butchered four men. He’d assumed she was largely benevolent, since she’d bothered to fight off the bandits anyway, but he was quickly realizing that he’d made far too many assumptions about what kind of woman Aoife really was. 

_Well, fuck,_ Jaskier thought indignantly, shoving down the dread that was rising inside his chest. _That’s twice now you’ve talked yourself into a collaring. Be grateful she hasn’t pulled a knife on you. Yet._

“Alright, alright, just let go of my shirt,” Jaskier said grouchily, his tone far more indifferent than he actually felt. Aoife released him and Jaskier smoothed his ruffled doublet, attempting to hide how his hands shook.

“Well, no sense trying to outrun the patrols,” he announced, as if he’d been the one to realize it first. “Bring us as close to shore as you can, quickly now!”

Then, he turned to Aoife, who was sulking next to Pegasus’s harness. “And you,” he said indignantly. “Wrap yourself up in your cloak, and hide yourself among the luggage. As long as they don’t board the boat, they’ll never know you’re here.”

“I think that’s the smartest thing that’s come out of your mouth today, bard,” Aoife spat, but quickly heeded his advice. Jaskier made a rude gesture at her back. But only when he was sure she wasn’t looking.

The patrol followed closely as the ferry slowly began to move towards shore, and Jaskier examined them closely: six officers in blue and white lily armor, all on horseback. Their leader, a captain Jaskier recognized, was wearing a blue cloak, and riding a magnificent grey mount. When they finally got close enough to shore to be heard over the roar of the river, the apprentice and the father threw the anchoring rope to the waiting knights, who quickly tied it off to a tree. Jaskier leaped forward to stand on the railing of the ferry, only wobbling a little.

“Greetings, noble knights!” he called out. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“We’ve caught wind of a group of bandits that attempted to waylay a ferry headed east,” the captain said. Jaskier realized with some disappointment that he did not recognize the man from the previous winter; it was unlikely that the captain had heard of him.

_Oh well. No pulling the wool over his eyes._

“You’ve got excellent informants, because our barge was attacked by such a group just a few hours past!” Jaskier replied, waving a hand at the blood-stained deck. “But fortunately for us, they were rather stupid and slow, and the three of us men were able to take care of them quite easily!”

The captain was not impressed one bit by Jaskier’s theatrics, much to Jaskier’s chagrin.

_Oh, bollocks, no wonder they stuck him on border patrol instead of keeping him at the castle,_ Jaskier thought spitefully.

“I’m certainly glad to hear that, but if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to search your craft, and it’s occupants. The bandit gangs along this stretch of the Yaruga have been said to plant their members with the common folk; in order to deceive them into an ambush.”

“Which is precisely what happened,” Jaskier said gravely. “Of the nine of us who began the journey, one proved to be a bandit after he cut the ferryman’s throat. His friends quickly followed; three, four total, including the brigand already aboard. But as we said, they were quickly dispatched.”

“And what of the ninth passenger?” the captain asked flatly.

Jaskier faltered, and realized just how badly he’d fucked up. He should have told them there were eight passengers, not nine; now they had a missing crew member that was unaccounted for. Even if they didn’t board the ferry, the captain could very well demand they hand over the ferryman’s logs, which would immediately notice who was missing; that is, as long as Aoife was using a pseudonym, which he assumed she was clever enough to think of. But Jaskier doubted the captain would let them get away with it: already, his eyes were narrowing with suspicion, and his officers were shifting anxiously, awaiting orders.

“The ninth passenger met an unfortunate end,” Jaskier tried to spin his falter into a choked sob of grief. “She was brutally attacked by the bandits; thrown overboard in the scuffle... A tragic end, for such a fair lady.”

“Truly,” the captain said, his expression now unreadable. “It seems you good folk have undergone quite the ordeal, and I’m certain you’re desperate to reach your destination. However, I have my orders, so it pains me to ask that you allow us to search your vessel.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to reply, but then the captain suddenly drew his sword; shouting incoherently. Jaskier stumbled back, wondering distantly what the hell he’d done to cock it up now, and then a dark shape flew over his head, and landed in the shallow end of the river before bolting into the woods away from the guards. The captain’s horse reared, and he shouted a command to his men:

“You three, after her! Don’t let her get away!” 

And then, the horrible truth caught up with Jaskier, and he let out a spluttering cry of anger:

“She stole my fucking horse!”

Reason swiftly abandoning him, Jaskier grabbed his lute and his satchel and leaped overboard, swearing at the freezing water that came up to his knees, and began plodding towards the remaining patrol officer.

“Good sir!” he exclaimed, dragging himself onto shore. “That was my horse! She stole _my horse!”_

“The captain and our three swiftest riders have gone after her,” the officer said dryly, obviously off-put by the soaking wet, and irate bard now flapping his hands irritably, and flicking water everywhere.

“No, no, no, you don’t get it!” Jaskier shouted angrily. “She stole _my horse,_ the angriest, most cantankerous animal known to man! He hates galloping, and won’t do it more than a few miles before throwing the rider off. I’d say she might have a chance at taming him, but she’s got a broken wrist; there’s no way she can stay on!”

The officer shifted uncomfortably. “Well, in that case, the captain and the rest will catch up with her even sooner. You’ll just have to wait...”

“Or,” Jaskier said, grinning wickedly. “I can lead you right to her.”

__________________

He’d known exactly what Aoife would try to do. It was a clever plan, in his opinion; as soon as Pegasus began to rebel, she would drop the reins and send Pegasus flying, and then she would run the exact opposite direction. Jaskier had done such a thing on his own several times before, but of course, he didn’t mention this to the officer who rode with him (he’d been reluctant to leave the ferry crew at first, but Jaskier had managed to talk him into it through some divine act), who sat stoically in front of Jaskier – Gareth, he discovered, was his name.

“What do you know about this woman?” Gareth had interrogated him after they’d set out after the rest of the patrol.

“Hardly anything,” Jaskier admitted. “She was on the ferry, killed the bandits that attacked us, then threatened to castrate me if we gave her up to the patrol. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, you see, and let that be on the record!”

“We’ll deal with the matter of your perjury later,” Gareth had replied, almost tiredly. “For now, we need to catch up to the others, and then find out where...”

“No!” Jaskier exclaimed. “Don’t you get it? She’ll kill all of you! She took out four armed men as easily as you put on your trousers!”

“Six of the king’s finest officers are no comparison to four ordinary bandits, or even one extraordinary woman,” Gareth said. He was so annoyingly _stoic,_ Jaskier decided. Not Geralt’s brand of stoic, mind you; that was all grunting and masculine pain. Gareth had a calm, reasonable response to every bit of alarmed information that came from Jaskier. It was killing his vengeful mood, quite frankly, and he needed to be ready to face off against Aoife when they finally found her.

He glanced at Gareth’s sword, hanging at his side. Well. Face off from behind Gareth, at least.

He should have suspected that his plan wouldn’t pan out the way it was intended, because when did his plans _ever?_ But when they found Pegasus far before they found the rest of the patrol, Jaskier was still thoroughly shocked.

“How the hell did they ride past her already?” he exclaimed, dismounting the officer’s horse and rushing over to check on Pegasus. The old stallion was breathing hard, and upon seeing his master, nickered indignantly; as if saying, _why the hell did you let me get kidnapped, you rat bastard?_

“Do you think she’s already doubled back?” Gareth asked nervously, his horse dancing nervously. Jaskier looked around, and immediately noticed something was off. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he felt that same strange, unexplainable feeling of electricity shoot through his veins, and he suddenly realized they’d walked into a trap.

“Gareth, look out...!” he exclaimed, but it was too late: a black blur had fallen from a tree and landed on Gareth, knocking him off his horse, and before Jaskier could react, Aoife had drawn a knife across his throat.

“Fucking _hell!”_ Jaskier screamed, stumbling backwards and clutching his mouth in horror. A sick feeling rose in him as Aoife rummaged beneath the knight’s collar, but then Jaskier’s brain caught up with his eyes, and he realized no blood stained Aoife’s hands, or the knight’s neck. With a satisfied shout, she yanked something from under his breastplate; holding it in the air for Jaskier to inspect: it was a thick band of metal, like a necklace, that had strange runes carved into the edges.   
  
“A tracking amulet,” she hissed, then smashed it to pieces beneath her heel. “Fucking Keira has them all searching for me. He’ll be alright, stop your gaping.”

True to her word, Gareth began stirring beneath Aoife, groaning in pain. She grabbed at his collar, and he groaned again.

“Hey, lad! Listen here! When your captain gets back, tell him to pass on a message to Keira Metz: tell her she’ll find me on the final layer of hell, and I’ll welcome her to join me there!”

“Who... Keira?” the knight groaned. Aoife scoffed, and let him drop to the ground, where he once again fell unconscious.

“Fucking typical,” she spat, then swiftly stood and spun on Jaskier; focusing all of her ire on him. “Now, why the hell are _you_ following me?”

Jaskier reared back, indignance once again overcoming his shock and confusion. “Excuse me, but _you_ are the one that stole my horse!”

“You mean that hateful excuse for an animal?” Aoife spat at Pegasus, who nickered his own dislike. “Keep him.”

“I will, thank you very much!” Jaskier spat. “But you... what the hell are you going to do? The border patrol overtook the ferry, and they’ll accuse me of harboring enemies of the state!”

“Did you give them your name?”

“No, why the bloody hell would I?”

“Then to them, you’re just some random bard that happened to tell another bard-like lie,” she said, pulling a document out of her pocket. “And I already nicked the ferryman’s list, so no worries of them finding your name written there.”

Jaskier was honestly stunned for a moment. He couldn’t possibly imagine why Aoife had stolen the document, unless...  
  
“You’re travelling under a pseudonym,” Jaskier guessed. “So there’s no reason for you to have nabbed the ferryman’s list. Unless...” realization washed over him, and his eyes widened in shock. “You were trying to _protect_ me!”

“Trying, being the operative word,” Aoife sighed. “Granted, you managed to keep yer mouth shut.”

Jaskier’s head was reeling. “But _why?”_ exclaimed. “You’ve given me every reason to believe you loathe the very sight of me! Would it not serve you better to know I’m locked up in a dungeon somewhere in Vizima?”

And then, another whiplash realization struck him, and everything made sense. Jaskier raised his hand; spluttering indignantly, and Aoife crossed her arms with a scowl; knowing she’d been caught.

“We _have_ met before!” Jaskier cried. “In Novigrad; at the Passiflora! It was over ten years ago, and I was so piss drunk I could hardly remember my own name, but I remember _yours,_ Brienne of Ard...”

“Yes, yes, nice to see you too, and while I love a good reunion, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” _Brienne_ snapped, turning to mount Gareth’s horse. “Stay with the knight; the patrol will circle back soon.”   
  
Jaskier felt his stomach twist into knots. “Nooo no no no, I’ve no time to _play games_ with the Temerians either; I’m due at court this very night, and I am _not...”_

Brienne yanked the reins of her horse and whirled in the saddle, and Jaskier nearly fell off his own horse. He thought for certain she was going to attempt some kind of bodily harm against him, but he quickly realized her eyes were wide in her own surprise.

“You’re due at court?” she said, her voice tense and low. Jaskier swallowed hard. Something told him he needed to lie; bluff his way out of this, that he was making a _very_ big mistake, and yet, Brienne might be his ticket out of the pile of shit he’d landed in.

“At the behest of Queen Calanthe herself,” Jaskier sniffed. “And I, for one, am not so eager to displease her, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll help me get over the fucking border, and maybe we can... I don’t know, come to an agreement about payment?”

Brienne did not reply immediately, her eyes inspecting him suspiciously. Jaskier felt like ants were crawling over his skin; something about her gaze _deeply_ unsettled him, but then again, he had just watched her take out five men twice her size, and escape Temerian border patrol. 

“You’ve got a deal, bard,” she said finally, her voice hard. “I’ll get you safe to Cintra, and in exchange, you help me.”

“Oh good, very vague; lots of room for interpretation and exploitation of good intentions there,” Jaskier spat sarcastically. “Fine, now shouldn’t we be getting a move on?”

Brienne spun back around in the saddle, and spurred her horse onward, and with a swear, Jaskier urged (begged) Pegasus to follow after.

“How do you suppose we’re supposed to dodge the patrol all the way there?” he shouted up at her.

Brienne glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve got a friend,” she shouted back. “She’s a bit... intense, so do try to watch what you say around her. Stay close, because I’m not coming back for you.”

“Glad to know where we stand,” Jaskier grumbled, before urging Pegasus to go just a little bit faster.

Brienne didn’t let up until Jaskier was certain they were far past the patrol, or any main road for that matter; Jaskier began to wonder where exactly this _friend_ of hers lived. It apparently took a bit of finding; Brienne occasionally stopped to dismount, and examine something on the ground, her hand hovering over the dirt as if sensing for something.

Jaskier was struck by an odd sense of hilarity; it was so similar to his treks with Geralt. The stony silence, the strange, unexplainable behaviors that only made sense to him... his earlier comparison of the two of them had been on the money. And then, another thought struck him.

“Say, Brienne,” he spoke up after Brienne had dismounted for a third time to check for some unseen indicator in the earth. Brienne glanced at him with some measured level of annoyance. She’d gotten control of her temper the further they got into the woods, though she still maintained a chilly distance that was not at _all_ similar to the quiet comradery he enjoyed from Geralt. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she put him at such a distance, but it seemed very intentional to him; not as a result of personality, or his being an unwelcome tagalong.

“What is it, bard?” she griped, after Jaskier had been silent a moment too long. He quickly stumbled to find his words.

“Back in Novigrad, you were searching for a witcher,” he began, watching with increasing curiosity as he noticed her hands falter ever so slightly. “Did you ever find him? Geralt, the one I told you about?”

Brienne did not answer him until she finished with her task, then mounted her horse again. She still did not look at him as she answered.

“Yes, I did,” she said shortly.

Jaskier would not be deterred. “And did he help you with your...” he faltered, here, not remembering exactly what it was Brienne had needed help with. Something about the way Brienne’s shoulders stiffened told him he would never find out.

“Yes. He did.” Then she turned, leaving no more room for conversation.

Jaskier sighed. _Oh bloody hell, he broke her heart, didn’t he?_ he thought ruefully. _I can hear it in her voice: it has heartbreak written all over it. And now, she must blame me for playing the unfavorable matchmaker._

“Look, I can understand why you’re angry,” Jaskier began, and Brienne threw a sour look over her shoulder.

“Oh, can you, now?”

Jaskier nodded sagely. “I understand the situation _fully,_ in fact. Perhaps I gave you the wrong impression of my dear friend; portrayed him as more a gallant sort of stoic, more like our dear Gareth back there. In truth, he’s not the most... _approachable_ person, and perhaps in not being fully honest with you all those years ago you now think I’m dishonest, and aren’t likely to trust me.”

Brienne suddenly pulled on her stallion’s reins and whipped around in her saddle to face him. Her face was a mixture of anger, indignance, and complete and utter shock. Her eyes were wide with incredulousness.

“Are you bloody telling me,” Brienne began slowly. “That you think I don’t like _you,_ because your friend is a massive wankstain? Is that what you’re telling me right now, Jaskier?”

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.

“Is that _not_ why you hate me?”

Brienne’s face turned a brilliant shade of crimson, made even brighter by her white hair. “Yer bum’s oot the fuckin windae if you evn’ _think..._!”

But before Brienne could finish, a freak gust of air suddenly picked up; so powerful, it nearly knocked the both of them over. The horses reared, startled by the sudden howling noise, and the whipping of leaves along the ground. Jaskier gripped Pegasus’s neck tightly, trying not to get thrown off his horse, when he heard a woman’s voice fill the air:

“You don’t belong here, outsider,”

Panic flooded through Jaskier, as he very quickly agreed with the mysterious disembodied voice. But Brienne was apparently unafraid.

“Oh come off it, Coral!” she shouted over the wind. “It’s just me!”

The wind died down as quickly as it started, and when Jaskier looked up, there was a tall, redheaded woman standing in front of Brienne. Well, red-headed hardly seemed to cover it: her hair was a brilliant flame red, too bright to be natural, and her eyes were an unsettling green. She was barefoot, and wearing a white shift with a dangerously high slit up the side. In a word, she was beautiful. In two, she was _frighteningly_ beautiful, and something about her unsettled Jaskier to the point that he wanted to turn tail, and leave. But he needed to get to Cintra, and according to Brienne, this woman could make it happen.

“Brienne,” Coral said, stepping forward with a smile that was strangely foxlike. Brienne dismounted and approached her, giving her a gentle hug. Jaskier could not see her face, but he guessed that by the tension in her shoulders, she was not as happy to see Coral as the sorceress (because what the hell else could she be?) was to see her.

“Lytta,” Brienne said, her voice cool and even. “It’s been a long time. Let me introduce you to my companion: this is Jaskier, a travelling bard. Jaskier, meet Lytta Nedd; known also as Coral.”

Coral’s gaze slid over to Jaskier, and he immediately felt frozen to the spot by that dangerous jade gaze. He forced himself to dismount, and gave her a curt bow; despite every bone in his body telling him to run the opposite direction, and don’t look back.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, rather stiffly. Coral’s smile immediately slipped from her face, and for a moment, Jaskier was truly terrified that she might smite him where he stood, until Brienne blessedly distracted her once more.

“It has been too long, my friend,” she said. “How have you faired these past years?”

Coral took just a moment too long to turn her gaze back to Brienne, and plastering that smile back on her face.

“I’ve been well as can be,” she said in a soft brogue. “I’m preparing to return home this summer.”

_She’s Skelligan too,_ Jaskier realized. _Is that how they know each other, then? How the hell else do you come into acquaintance with someone like this?_

“And what about yourself, dear friend? When was the last time you visited home?”

“It’s been a long time, and I fear it will be a long time more before I’m able to return,” Brienne said solemnly. “I’ve been called to Cintra.”

“Cintra?” Coral said, a faint frown crossing her face, more delicate than the frown she’d fixed Jaskier with. _A mask,_ he thought angrily. _All this posturing, mask wearing, and decorum. Brienne’s not one to dance around like this, so it must be to avoid offending the sorceress._

As if sensing his thoughts, Coral’s gaze once more slid over to Jaskier, and his heart seemed to stop. Inside that delicate little frown, he felt his thoughts spiral; swirling, endlessly falling into a chasm of darkness. His mother’s voice called out to him in anger; his father’s drunken shouts rang out over the pleads of the servants, _please, sir, it was only a mistake...he was only a mistake..._

“Please forgive my companion, Lytta,” Brienne said suddenly, and it felt like a wall had gone up in Jaskier’s mind. He was reeling slightly, his breath coming in shaky bursts. He’d broken out in a cold sweat. Fear coursed through him: what the _hell_ kind of magic was this?

Brienne was standing more fully in between them now, blocking Coral’s line of sight, and completely obscuring her from Jaskier’s view. He shivered gratefully.

“It is no matter,” Coral said delicately. “He simply did not know. And now, he does.”

_Gods above, she’s insane,_ Jaskier thought.

“We need your help, my friend,” Brienne said quickly. “The bard and I are both called to Cintra, and our ferry was attacked. Now, we’re being pursued by Keira Metz.”

“Keira?” Coral said, and for the first time, her delicate voice cracked with the hints of scorn. “Whatever have you done to piss her off now?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Brienne said carefully. “But she’s put my friend’s life in danger, and that, I cannot abide. We need safe passage to Cintra. In payment, I can offer you...”  
  
“I am not interested in payment,” Coral interrupted suddenly, and Brienne went very, very still. “And yet, I am interested in that bard, there,” she said, stepping around Brienne. Jaskier’s blood ran cold as he was once again forced to face those green eyes of hers. He felt like a cornered animal; trapped beneath the malevolent intensity of her gaze...

“The bard has nothing to do with this,” Brienne said, her respectful tone quickly slipping. “Leave him be.”

“Oh, but why would I?” Coral said coolly. “He comes into my home, and dares to disrespect me?”

  
Jaskier’s blood ran cold. Sorceresses could read thoughts. How could he have fucking forgotten?!

“That’s right, little bard,” Coral’s laugh was as sharp as ice. “And how positively _interesting_ your thoughts are! You think you’re so clever with that quick wit of yours, and yet you don’t even have the decency to insult me to my face? It seems you’ve taken your gift of words for granted.”

Jaskier was helpless to move as Coral stalked towards him; completely frozen in place. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breath as she lifted her pale hands towards him.

“Coral, stop!” Brienne cried out, rushing forward with her arms outstretched, and Jaskier felt the prickle of electricity try to override the terrifying magic that seemed to grip him; two forces pulling, pushing, fighting for dominance, but Coral’s malevolence seemed to drown out everything else, until he was overwhelmed by the suffocating power...

“Try and stop me,” she hissed, her beautiful face contorting into a hideous sneer. Jaskier’s head exploded with pain; his lungs burning as if they’d been set alight. He collapsed with a strangled scream; his lungs crying desperately for air, for relief from the tremendous pressure.

And then the world seemed to invert itself. Brilliant shards of white light invaded his senses; he felt ice cold and burning hot, he felt weightless, and ten thousand pounds. And then he was falling, falling, falling, as a pair of hands grabbed at him desperately...

And then, he collapsed with a thump on the hard ground, smacking the side of his head soundly on the dirt. Another weight had collapsed on top of him, and he realized distantly that Brienne had collapsed across his side, and cracked her head against his shoulder.

“Fucking _bitch...!”_ Brienne roared in his ear, before suddenly springing to her feet; spinning around wildly. “What the _fuck_ did you do to him, Coral?! You’re going to pay for this!”

Jaskier finally seemed to regain his senses, though his head still pounded. His entire body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, but he still forced himself into a sitting position, huffing with the effort.

_Well that was fucking scary,_ he thought angrily. _What the bloody hell was Brienne thinking, consorting with sorceresses like that? Sweet Melitele, I thought Yennefer was scary._

Brienne had stopped yelling, and was turning slow circles, mumbling angrily to herself. They were on a dirt road, Jaskier realized with some surprise; surrounded by trees on either side, with nothing in the distance on either end. Incredibly enough, both of their horses were standing just a few feet away; apparently unperturbed. Beyond all reason, it appeared Coral had kept her end of the bargain. Though what had been exchanged, Jaskier was loathe to find out.

“We must be in Cintra,” Brienne finally sighed, apparently coming to the same conclusion. When she turned to look at Jaskier, she at least had the good grace to look apologetic. “I hate that horrible cow, but teleportation is the fastest way to cross the Yaruga, and she’s the only sorceress I know who’s powerful enough teleport four creatures this far.” 

_I wouldn’t precisely call that convenient,_ Jaskier thought angrily, and opened his mouth to tell Brienne just that. But when he formed the words on his tongue, he found that nothing but a broken breath of air came out. He closed his mouth in surprise. He cleared his throat quickly, and tried again. Nothing but a broken whisper of air escaped.

_Oh. Oh no._

Brienne’s eyes widened. She was saying something. Jaskier could see her lips moving, but he no longer heard her voice: panic had completely overridden his senses. His memory quickly spiraled; back to the djinn that had stolen his voice all those years ago. There was no pain now, as he’d felt then, but his voice, his words, his one weapon against the world, had completely vanished once more.

Blind panic took hold of him as he clutched at his throat desperately, tears streaming down his face. No, no, no, he couldn’t have lost his voice... He was a bard, bards _sing,_ they woo women with their pretty words, they bring entire rooms to their feet; he couldn’t have just _lost_ his voice! And the Queen... he was due to appear in court in three days to perform at the princess’s celebration. If he couldn’t perform, he would be disgraced; cast out of the kingdom, of the college... He would be penniless again, completely defenseless, and unable to even ask for help...

He was mouthing all of this silently, he realized; his lips forming the words, but no sound coming out. Tears were pouring down his face, and he was clutching his hair. Suddenly, strong hands gripped his shoulders; shaking him violently, and forcing him to look up, and he was suddenly trapped in place by Brienne’s blue eyes. Whatever had lay behind them before that unsettled him so greatly, it had been replaced by something entirely different: stern, focused, and filled with deep, twisting guilt.

“Jaskier, listen to me.” her voice was firm, but not harsh; forcing him to focus on her words, on her voice. He only stared; wide-eyed and helpless.

_Help me,_ he mouthed, his face contorting with pain. _Please, help me._

“Don’t try to speak, you’ll just make it worse,” Brienne said, her voice surprisingly gentle, but Jaskier flailed his hands angrily.

  
_What the hell should I do, then?!”_

Brienne suddenly grabbed his hands, and Jaskier went very, very still. Her hands were rough and calloused, but painfully gentle as she pressed the tips of his fingers to the palm of her hand.

“You may have lost your voice, but you’ve still got clever hands,” she said gently. “ _Use them.”_

  
Jaskier swallowed hard, understanding. Alright. He could do this. He could write easily enough. But what to say? Where did he even begin?

_Curse?_ He spelled with trembling fingertips.

Brienne nodded, not looking away from his eyes even once.

“Yes,” she confirmed solemnly. “And a nasty one at that. But reversible.”

Jaskier swallowed hard, trying not to panic. _How?_ he spelled out. 

Brienne’s lips were a thin line. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. "Coral's a horrible, vindictive cow, but her nasty little curses are usually reversible. Finding her again would be our best option..." 

Jaskier shook his head violently, his eyes wide. _Anyone, anyone but that horrible woman again._ Fortunately, Brienne understood the sentiment, and sighed.

"I know, I know; I said it was the best option, not the safest. We don't have time to double back anyway; you're due at the palace, and I've my own business to attend to as well.”

An awful lump rose in his throat as a horrible thought struck him. They were in Cintra, now. Brienne could very well dump him now; he doubted he would be of any use to her like this anyway, deals be damned. He would be helpless on his own; penniless, unable to perform at the palace, unless Calanthe was willing to go out of her way to help a lowly bard, which he highly doubted. He would be utterly humiliated: ignoring a court summons was unheard of. Losing his voice... it could very well ruin him. Unless he could somehow get away, find Yennefer and Geralt...

“...isn’t fond of mages, but I think Mousesack still... are you even listening, bard, or did Coral steal your hearing too?” Brienne snapped, and Jaskier suddenly returned to reality. He shook his head quickly, trying not to feel annoyed at the way she sighed at him.

“I said, our best bet to breaking this curse is to find you a sorcerer in Cintra, but Calanthe isn’t entirely fond of them. Have you met Mousesack before?”

Jaskier brightened considerably; he’d nearly forgotten about Geralt’s old friend. He was an odd fellow, but Geralt seemed to trust him. If he could find him at the palace, he might actually stand a chance at breaking the curse. He nodded enthusiastically, and Brienne’s replying smirk was only a little exasperated.

“Well, that’s good, then. I’ll help you get to Cintra to find him, then; I owe you that much.”

_You owe me quite a bit more than that, I should say,_ Jaskier thought grouchily, as he began to push himself to his feet. He patted his doublet pockets, feeling for the letter again; practically out of instinct now, and suddenly, his blood ran cold: the letter was gone. He began patting himself frantically; mouth gaping open and shut like a fish, unable to express his panic, and then another cold realization hit him. He turned slowly, his eyes wide, to see Brienne standing a few feet away; an elegant, if somewhat crumpled letter between her fingers.

“Now, about that favor _you_ owe me,” she said, her voice flat, and void of any and all emotion.

Jaskier shook his head at her, as if that would somehow dissuade her from taking off with his only way of getting into the palace, and getting this fucking curse lifted. Brienne’s expression did not change, and Jaskier realized with dawning horror exactly how fucked he really was.

“Thing is, I need to be at the palace in a few days too,” she said, her voice thin. “I could really use your help with that. I could always take off with your summons, but like I said: it’s my fault you’re in this mess in the first place, and I intend to see you through it. But I need to get into the palace to see Calanthe, and I’ve not exactly been invited with such honors as yourself,”

Jaskier clenched his jaw furiously, his eyes glinting. She couldn’t seriously be suggesting...?

“If you get me to the palace, without raising any alarms, I’ll give you the summons, and you’ll be free to break your curse, and sing to your hearts content.” Then, she shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, we’re both fucked without helping each other.”

It _did_ make him feel a bit better, thank you very much - but that didn't give him his voice back, or make it any easier to get into the palace without her help: the guards were certain to turn him away without a letter, and if he completely abandoned Calanthe's summons, he wouldn't need his voice at all for all the damage it would do to his reputation. His life was, quite literally, in her hands, and he still didn't know who this woman was, or why she even wanted to get to the palace in the first place. He could very well be committing treason simply by aiding her.

_Walk away,_ a reasonable part of Jaskier’s mind told him. _Walk away, find an inn that will take you, and write your most apologetic letter to Mousesack begging for his help, and hope it even makes it to them. Don’t get involved with this woman._

But something stopped him, as he realized a flaw in her little plan: once he got to the palace, there was no collateral; nothing stopping him from finding Mousesack, getting his curse lifted, and blabbing the whole thing: that she was an infiltrator, he’d been blackmailed, she’d been the one to curse him in the first place... at this point, it was his word over hers, and he’d told more than a few elaborate lies in his time. He could make this end _very_ badly for her, and yet Brienne was either hoping he didn’t realize, or was truly desperate, and hoping for his mercy.

It was dangerous to guess which it was: he’d already made assumptions about the kind of person she was, and he’d been horribly, horribly wrong. But then again... what if he hadn’t been? She was manipulative, cunning, looked for all the world like a villain he sang about in his ballads that Geralt usually defeated dramatically... but it didn’t add up. She’d been so concerned about the child on the ferry. She hadn’t killed Gareth, even though it might have served her better to do so. And then, back in the woods, when Coral had cast her curse upon him... he’d felt another kind of magic interfering. She’d tried to protect him.

And then, there was the fact that even a decade later, Geralt sometimes whispered her name in his sleep while on the road; his voice full of fear, and sadness.

Jaskier reached down into his pack, slowly, slowly, and withdrew a pencil and paper; quickly scribbling a note in large letters and holding it up to Brienne:

_I could turn you in when my voice comes back._

Brienne’s lips twitched. “I’m well aware of that. But you wouldn’t have told me about it, if you really planned to do so. I just need inside the palace, Jaskier. I’m not going to hurt anyone. You have my word.”

Jaskier stared at her suspiciously, then scribbled another note.

_Tell me what you want at the palace, and I’ll do it._

Brienne’s frown deepened, and a shadow crossed her face. For a moment, behind her stony exterior, Jaskier saw something wounded, raw, and broken beneath the surface. A near mirror image of the look Geralt got; on the nights when he thought Jaskier wasn’t looking.

“I’m trying to right a wrong I did, many years ago,” she said, her voice cracking. She tilted her chin at him, and her expression became sharp and stony once more. Her eyes glinted in the sunlight. “Will you help me, Jaskier?”

_Ah bollocks, it’s like dealing with Geralt all over again,_ Jaskier thought angrily; only upset because he’d made up his mind the moment he saw that wounded expression on her face. He’d always been drawn to tragic heroes. He scribbled a note in his journal, and held it up for Brienne to see:

_You’re going to regret helping me get my voice back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter so I'm just going for fic completion at this point, because if I stop to nitpick everything I write, I'll never post again ;,;


End file.
